


The Smith who Trapped a Demon

by Roadstergal



Series: Thor and the Demon [3]
Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Fishing, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Loss of Faith, M/M, Tragic Romance, Trapped, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 19:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: A demon has disturbed the quiet of a simple farming village.  A sequel to both my previous fic and Kahvi's companion piece:https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853222https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849333





	The Smith who Trapped a Demon

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kahvi for all of her ongoing Norse guidance and review. She's the Norwegian, I'm the Californian!

A demon had come to live in the cold waters of Alten.

The local fisherman bewailed their fate, that the soft-handed city dwellers had driven this devil to their lands. Scaled and brown like a fish, it was, those fishermen who had caught a glimpse of it noted. Delicate fins like a rabbit fish, but eyes of blue instead of green. Its mournful howls drove the fish from the nets of the aett, and so they conspired to drive it away. On dark Yule, the longest night of the year, they made great noise with their cooking pots and the lusty voices of the young women and men, and it ran off into the forests, never to bother the fishermen again.

* * *

A demon had come to live in the forests of Porsanger.

The local farmers bewailed their fate, that the fishermen had driven this devil to their lands. Scaled and brown like the quiet grasa snakes, it was, those farmers who had caught a glimpse of it noted. Swift, though, the demon was, with large eyes of blue. Its mournful howls disturbed the oxen and caused the milk of the goats to dry, and so they conspired to drive it away.

Loud and contentious was the meeting of the elders. The loudest voice was of the young farmer who stood head and shoulders above the height of the other young men. He always bested his rivals at wrestling, shooting stout bows of yew, and the art of the sharp ax. “Let us be bold,” he told the others. “We are powerful, we have skills at hunting and tracking. Let us hunt demon!”

“And what if you fail?” asked the eldest. “All of our youth will be wiped out. Our farms will wither.”

“Then I will hunt him on my own,” he said, determined, and set out the next day to track the demon.

Its traces were light and subtle, but keen was the young man’s eyesight and careful were his footfalls. He tracked the demon tirelessly over two days and one night, and knew he was close when he heard the demon rustle the undergrowth, when he caught glimpses of its dark scales, its forked tail.

Yet when he endeavored to pounce upon it, the demon cast seidr upon him, and the young man was overcome with howling forces, confusing illusions. His tongue would not move, his limbs were as old, trembling trees, and his sharp, deadly ax fell from his limp hand. His fellows found him a day later, lying on a bed of dead leaves.

“Might does no good against this demon,” the smith complained when they met to discuss this failure. A freed slave from the green isles was he, his accent thick and halting. Not a strong warrior was he, nor herdsman, nor tracker. Yet his skills at fashioning metal and leather were unparalleled, and great deference was given to him therefore. “We must use cunning.”

“Cunning,” sniffed the warrior, “or cowardice, good smith?”

“Our greatest warrior has failed,” spoke the seidrmann. “Perhaps it is time for more subtle arts.”

“I will set a trap for this demon,” the smith declared. “I will capture him and bend him to my will, if he be of flesh like us.” A former follower of the Kvitekrist was he, disillusioned by the futility of his sacrifices and prayers. All were flesh, now, to him, and all could be fooled.

Great were the labors of the smith; he had not the skill of the smiths of Nidavellir, but as a mortal of Midgard, his talents were unmatched. He made traps of great cunning, forging jaws of strong metal, nets of tough reindeer entrails, tripwires slim and strong as spider-silk. Deep into the forest went the smith, and set his traps; he baited them with sweet cups of fermented honey.

Long was the wait of the smith; three days passed over his head, three nights saw him rest his head in crude shelter, living on dried meat so as to make no sign of his presence with tent or fire. Yet his waiting was not in vain, as the demon smelled the tempting bait. It neared the offerings carefully, reaching longingly for the fragrant mead, and the smith’s trap worked true. The demon cried out woefully, tearing at the net with its claws, but sturdy was the work of the smith, and the more he fought, the more tightly tangled the demon became.

“Quiet thyself, demon,” noted the smith, emerging from his hiding. “You are my prisoner, and you must give me ransom to earn your freedom.” Now that he could see the demon clearly, it was not fish nor fowl nor worm. It was shaped like a man, with the face of a man, comely in appearance, but a body covered in scales like a fish.

“I have nothing,” the demon told the smith. “A fire-demon I was, from the molten rivers of Helheim. I gave my heart to one of the Aesir, and his betrayal of my love has quenched my fire. I roam Midgard, homeless, joyless, while the Aesir revel in the warm sun. I have nothing to give to you, mortal.”

At this tale, the smith was greatly moved. “Demon, the only ransom we desire of you is to leave our lands. Yet your story has touched my heart. I am an outsider, not of this land. I am mistrusted among my fellows and unloved by the women; I have little to keep me here. I do not fear the Aesir as gods. Give me your pledge, demon, to protect me from all harm, and I will bring you to the land of the Aesir to accuse him that played you false. I will make you clothing of metal and a pair of sly seax.”

The demon’s frozen heart was warmed by the smith’s words, and he pledged his protection to the smith with a drop of dark demon-blood from his finger. The smith likewise pledged never to rest until they found the bright lands of the Aesir. He unwound the demon from the net, and together went they into the mountains, seeking the bright bridge that would take them to Asgard.

The men and women of the village rejoiced, as the demon never disrupted their herds again. Yet they mourned the loss of their smith, and the bright knives and cunning tools he had forged for them. They carved a likeness of him from the heart of an ancient tree, a reminder to honor his memory, to give offerings of blood and wine to bolster his spirit, wherever it might roam.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Boy Who Tracked a Vette](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14889953) by [Kahvi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi)




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